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They say it is unrealistichow quickly and easilyyou learned how to wielda gun, but do they knowhow long you have waitedfor that cold metal to meetyour hands, how many fore-heads your eyes bore holesinto, how your trigger fingertwitched in your pocket untilbranding a welt into your ownthigh?

I’m writing this in the basement of an undisclosed apartmentin fill-in-the-blank-city, Georgia. It’s 11:17 pm. In the morning,the envelope will be delivered to a mailbox on the other endof town while my hands are covered in latex gloves. Beforeleaving, I’ll have showered for forty minutes, removing everytraceable scent from my body.

From the outside, one may argue that when choosingyour next victim, it shouldn’t matter where they are, that you’restill a human killing another human but that’s why that personis a professor. Or a mail man.That person may believe there is no difference whether you kill someonein the North or the Southwest, that tears in the eyes are alwaysmade of salt, that there is no subtle shift in the flavor of blood.But you get it. You know the distinct taste of a community’s DNA.Would you really enter Boston with the same smile as San Jose?

You may wonder why I care about you. I don’t.But I fuckin love seals.

Hey. I’ve been watching you, and it hurts. I have seen your eyeson the television screen, wilting under the light of the news camera.That sign you carried was starting to sink down. You gave someoneelse the megaphone. I’m writing this to tell you: I know.There is a point where the killing loses its spark. It stops liftingyour body out of bed. All you’ve been doing is eliminating everythingand everyone that drove your parents to their graves. With every Housebill you’ve petitioned into dust, with every wrongfully convictedsoul for whom you’ve wedged open the bars, you realize you’vebarely changed a thing. It’s like this planet doesn’t breathe unlesssomething’s starving to death.

I told you I’m writing you this letter in the basement of an undisclosedapartment in Georgia. This is true exceptthat this apartment doesn’t have a basement and it’s not in Georgia.What I’m saying is that I haven’t gotten so tired thatI’ve started getting sloppy. You’re screwing up. You’re forgetting crucialvolunteer phone calls. You’re misspelling protest signs, and notin an ironic fashion. Your email keeps getting hacked becauseyour password is a combination of your birthdayand your prom date’s middle name. How uncreative can you be?You didn’t wipe away your tears before they cuffed your wrists.You dropped your sunglasses before they sprayedyour eyes.

You’re fading. You’re betraying your scent to thewolves. When you make them this hungry, friend, what did youthink they would do?

I’m writing you this letter about two blocks from your parents’house. Stop hogging your mom’s lasagna.

Welcome to Taco Bell, how are you?I LOVE you!What would you like?For you to know how brilliant and beautiful you are, you gifted and precious human being!Is there something on the menu you would like to order?I’d like a burrito supreme flavored with your most recent tears of joy!A burrito supreme, anything else with that?I’d also like the cantina steak bowl held by a pair of hands that have given themselves to such holy work as greeting a thousand strangers a day, loving their souls through a microphone while they stare at a menu as if they could want anything more than to know that you were blessed enough to wake up this morning, good God you are beautiful, and very soon I will know it when I pull around to pay at your window.A burrito supreme, a cantina steak bowl, and anything else?Bless your midnight.Any sauce?May your dreams be kissed by God.That’ll be $7.96 at the window. Please pull ahead.Thank you, my heart is speeding, this basket of stones, my dark breaking heart—

In the morning, they’ll be in the air.Invisible, untraceable, lost to allbut themselves. Tonight she is in bed.Gripping her top sheet. Biting her pillow.She does not think of Charles, risingfrom his wheelchair for a brush of her flesh.Scott Summers does not slip from Jean’ssleeping arms to sweat into Ororo’s thighs.Her fingers are not lightning. Her breath isnot wind. She is alone. She makes alone sogood. She shudders to no one’s skill but her own.This, she thinks, is blackness.This, what blues her eyes.

Acapulco Mayor Luis Walton condemned the attack during a Tuesday news conference and vowed to apprehend those responsible as world attention homed in on Pacific port city.He called it regrettable, apologized for the gunmen’s attack and said it would probably affect the image of Acapulco, which derives much of its revenue from tourism.“We know that it’s very unfortunate what has happened, but it happens anywhere in the world,” said Walton. –quoted from an article on cnn.com

Here, where the sun licks your skinwith the sweet scent of enter,

where the ocean waters tongue your toesin a lullaby of salt,

where anyone can arrive in Mexicoand forget they are in Mexico,

here. You are welcome. Yes,we have room for you. Come.

And we promise, when the shakingin your shower has ended,

when the memory of guns and menand laughter is finished,

please, speak to them of the water,the rippled and succulent blue,

yes. They will imagine the faces,all of the accents and shades of skin,